“This place was always my favorite place,” she told Vern as they headed inside. Somewhere along the way, she’d taken his hand to lead him ahead. She’d never been with a man who wanted to hold her hand in public. Every man she’d ever been with was like her father—no PDA. Public displays of affection were for other women, not for Denise Conroy. As if she wasn’t worth it—something she now understood to be an evil lie that she’d completely bought into. Vern was practically attached to her at every opportunity, and she was discovering how much she could enjoy that.
“We came here every Saturday. You have to start up here on the mezzanine level.” She led him up the steel-grate stairs to the small group of weary Formica tables where most of the staff and volunteers ate and took breaks.
In a hang
